Binding Light
by Moonlit Dreaming
Summary: Helga Hufflepuff was the last to join the iconic four founders of Hogwarts. She quickly became, in Salazar's eyes, the most important. Oneshot series. Founder Era.
1. Part One: Tenacity

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter is, of course, the property of the wonderful JK Rowling. If that's not already obvious, I don't know how you've ended up here!

**Note: **Originally, I planned to write a single Founders onsehot based on how I imagined the group was formed, focusing on Helga and Salazar. But then I realised it was getting too long and I was trying to cram too many ideas into it, so I decided to split it into a mini-series. It probably won't be much longer than three or four short oneshots, but I've written bits here and there for each. Anyway, enjoy and please review – feedback is loved and always appreciated!

Binding Light

**Part One:** Tenacity

Helga was the last to join the group.

The original three believed they had all they needed: bravery, ambition and intelligence. What more could anyone want? A trio of qualities that once united would equal simply excellence. It was perfect. And their school would be perfect – the best, unrivalled. It was Rowena that pointed out what should have been painfully obvious. How would they feed their students? How would they tend to them? They had imagined a school so elite it forgot the basics.

It was Godric that remembered from his travels an inn nestled in the Welsh Valleys. It was called The Green Dragon and the landlady, he said, made the most hearty meals with barely a flick of her wand.

Salazar was full of objections. He slammed his silver goblet hard against the oak table top, spilling droplets of dark, red wine. "I don't care how good her cooking is," he stormed, "we're not enlisting the help somebody just because _you_ like their cakes, Godric!"

"Her talents stretch further than that, Salazar. She seemed a rather competent witch."

Salazar looked unimpressed. "You think with your stomach, Godric."

But Godric, used to his friend's changeable moods, merely laughed.

So they left for Wales, Godric hopeful, Rowena expectant and Salazar dismissive. The landlady – one Helga Hufflepuff – received them graciously. She led them through a smoky, low-ceilinged room, packed with chattering patrons, and into a secluded parlour at the back. She brought them food, as Godric promised she would. There were beef stews and chicken broth, golden, crumbling pastries, roasted vegetables and a wild berry tart. None of this pleased Salazar. In fact, his derision simply grew.

"And where, pray tell, are these so called talents?" he asked Godric, when their host left to fetch them flagons of mead.

Godric couldn't manage an answer because his mouth was full and by the time he had emptied it, Helga Hufflepuff was back, levitating three foaming flagons before her. She took her own drink in a small, gold cup that seemed to shine unnaturally bright in the glow of the fire. Salazar peered closely at it. "Is that a badger?" he said.

"Yes," said Helga, unabashed. "The badger was the symbol of my ancestors."

Salazar was torn between amusement at the lowliness of such a common animal and the mention of ancestors. Ancestors suggested blood purity.

Rowena, proud and distant though she was, took an instant liking to Helga. "They're a tenacious animal," she announced unexpectedly, shooting a sidelong glance at Salazar. "Not to be underestimated." Godric would later say that Rowena's affinity with Helga was a matter of gender. Rowena was attracted to the balance Helga brought to the group: two men and two women. She was no longer outnumbered.

"And is it goblin-wrought?" Salazar pressed, ignoring Rowena's glare.

"No," said Helga, taking a small sip, "I made it myself."

Before Salazar could process this, the door was thrown open and mop-haired, freckled face poked into view. "'Scuse me, Madam, but the goblins and the warlocks are 'aving words and it's getting out of hand. Spells are being thrown and uh, someone just upturned a table."

"I'll deal with them," she said, following the apprentice out of the door. There was a pause and a beat of silence that swelled, as the trio waited. Salazar leaned back in his chair, trying to peer through the door she had left ajar. The rumble of voices climbed and climbed, culminating in shouts. There was a bang and a flash of bright, yellow light that burst through the crack in the door. The voices receded into silence. There were no more shouts.

The parlour door opened wide and Helga walked back inside. She looked remarkably unruffled, with the exception of slightly pink cheeks and a few strands of curly hair out of place. "They're gone," she said cheerfully, re-taking her seat opposite Salazar.

A look passed between the original trio. Wordlessly, she was accepted, and Salazar begrudgingly conceded that Rowena's words about the tenacity of badgers may have been correct.

But what did _she_ stand for? They were each firm in their own views, varied as they were. It was important they knew where Helga Hufflepuff, soon to be ex-landlady of The Green Dragon, stood. Who would she side with: the wit of Rowena, the chivalry of Godric or the cunning of Salazar?

* * *

In the end, none of them.

She gave it all up – a family and a business – and for what? For 'the rest.' I'll take the rest, she said, irritatingly. Salazar despaired. What a waste of pure blood and talent it was to bother oneself educating just _any_body.

He thought her a fool, but could admit that she had her uses. For Rowena and Godric, she was a new distraction. With their eyes averted, he could focus on his own schemes, at least for a brief while. Still, though, she played on his mind.

He passed her in the halls of their new school and thought what a waste it was of pure blood and a pretty face.


	2. Part Two: Acceptance

**Note: **Hello! Welcome to the second part of my Founders mini-series. It was so much fun to write; I think I've fallen in love with the Founders Era. Thank you to** OhTex** and **ChocolateTeapot **for reviewing!

**Part Two: **Acceptance

For someone who was supposed to be so open-minded, Rowena Ravenclaw had an attitude that made Salazar's blood boil.

He stood before the flickering fireplace in his newly built common room. Either side of it, were two narrow, arched windows set with green glass. They looked out into the lake, and as he stood there, a black shadow swished past the pane. The dungeon was not as gloomy as you'd expect. It flickered with watery light that bounced off the lanterns hung from the low ceiling. Salazar hadn't chosen to be under the lake on a whim; water was in his blood. His ancestors had travelled across the sea from the hot, southern lands. The Slytherin common room was his underwater lair in honour of them.

But Rowena had poured scorn over the glory of his ancestors when she said that the ability to talk to snakes was 'a wicked art.' And so Salazar sulked.

He closed his eyes and listened to the lake water rushing against the windows. It sounded unsettled. An oncoming storm.

This was only the beginning, he knew, the dawn of their great ambitions. He felt like they were peering over the edge of a great precipice, with no choice but to jump. Either ruin or glory awaited them, and they wouldn't know which until it was too late.

* * *

He stepped out into the hall, the stone wall groaning behind him as it moved and swallowed up the Slytherin common room. Salazar grinned at his own masterful spell work. Perfectly hidden.

He wandered the gloomy tunnel of corridors that made up the dungeons. Godric had suggested that potions lessons be confined here, and Rowena nodded her agreement for she thought him _so_ wise and noble. He said the smoke and vapours should be kept downstairs, away from the noses of the students.

Typical Godric. His attitude never changed. Keep the fumes below ground, out of sight and out of mind, like all the other dark things. Keep down the darkness, ignore it and hope it'll go away.

Though, of course, Helga had also chosen an underground location for her common room. Salazar did not know exactly where it was. But he deduced that it had to be somewhere in the basement because she had long since completed the kitchens, which were below the Great Hall, and still seemed to spend in inexplicable amount of time sneaking downstairs.

He had reached their magnificent Entrance Hall and the mid-afternoon sun spilled through the high windows and over the stone floor. The oak doors were ajar.

* * *

The sun was beginning to dip beneath the tallest trees of the forest by the time Salazar finished his walk across the grounds. He wandered with the forest on his right and the smooth expanse of the Black Lake on his left. And mingled with the sound of birds and the musky scent of pine and earth, there came a gentle humming. It grew louder as he wound through the tree trunks and into a little clearing.

"Salazar!" Helga looked up in surprise. She was kneeling on the grass, seemingly unconcerned by her crumpled skirt. She raised a hand to brush her hair from her face and he noticed that her fingernails were caked in mud. "What are you doing here?"

"Why do you ask?" He smirked. "So suspicious, Helga..."

"It was an innocent question!" she countered, turning back to her plants. One of them, whose leaves swayed in a frenzy, seemed to be trying to bite her fingers off.

"And what are _you _doing?" he asked her.

"Collecting plants for my common room," she said brightly. "I'm beginning to think the Fanged Geranium isn't such a good idea. I might use it for a lesson, instead. Do you know how wonderful this forest is? It's astounding. There are species here I could only dream about back home..."

But Salazar had stopped listening and her words faded out of meaning, because he could hear a new voice moving towards them. Helga carried on chatting; she could not hear it.

He knew instantly the difference between a human voice and a snake's voice. It was knowledge that was born from years of experience. There was a silkiness to a serpent's speech. Only those who spoke the language could truly understand the eloquence of a rolling hiss.

"_Hungry. So hungry. Where are they, where? I smelt them."_

Salazar's head turned involuntarily in the direction of the serpent's voice, though Helga seemed not to notice.

"Our potions stock won't ever run low," she said. "So far, I've discovered fluxweed and knotgrass and..."

There was a rustle in the undergrowth as the snake grew nearer. Suddenly Helga looked up, forgetting her previous enthusiasm. She followed Salazar's intense stare. It was a tiny snake – no longer than a piece of string – with such dull brown scales that it was difficult to spot amongst the tangled tree roots.

"Is it true?" Helga said abruptly. "What Rowena said?" '_A wicked art.'_ "Can you understand them? Snakes, that is."

Salazar only nodded. He did not take his eyes off the snake. Instead, he pulled out his wand and strode towards it. "I can dispose of it – if you wish?" He flicked his wand carelessly, as if it was nothing. To his mind, she looked defenceless, crouched there in her flimsy blouse and skirt. Contrary to what Rowena seemed to think, he _could_ be a gentleman.

"No! Leave him be, Salazar!" Helga was insistent, her cheeks flushing deep pink. "He's only a little snake."

"Fine."

"What did he say?" she asked softly.

Salazar stopped, surprised. It took him a moment to realise that she was not mocking him.

He listened intently as the snake passed them and caught a whisper of, _"They're gone. All gone." _

"He's hungry," Salazar told her. "He thinks you've scared away all the mice."

"Oh!" She looked startled. "Can you tell him I'm sorry?"

Sorry?

Sorry was not part of a snake's vocabulary. "He's already gone," Salazar explained, shrugging. The sun had now vanished completely and the sky above the school was bathed a dusky lilac. Salazar pocketed his wand. "I'm going back to the castle. You know, you shouldn't linger in the forest after nightfall."

"I've no intention of doing so," she said, standing and ignoring the helping hand he offered her. "The house elves should be serving dinner."

They walked back to the school side by side. Helga reeled off endless plant names and facts, but didn't mention her common room again. It was _her _secret, Salazar knew, and for all her humility, she was proud of it.

No, she wouldn't volunteer any information about it.

Yet one sidelong glance at her earnest expression, told him that all he needed to do was ask and she'd tell him. Maybe even _show _him.

Salazar quite fancied visiting a room where a Fanged Geranium would not seem unusual.

Instead, he stayed quiet and distant, nodding and making the right noises in the right places, but otherwise refusing to be drawn into the conversation. By the time they reached the oak doors, Helga had fallen unusually silent.

He knew the opportunity had passed.

He told himself he would not regret it.

* * *

_**A/N: **__Thanks for reading and please leave a review because, well... I love them! :) Feedback would be very much appreciated!_


	3. Part Three: Trepidation

**Note: **I didn't expect to write this particular oneshot. But then I thought a little bit of Helga's POV would be nice! And since I wrote the last part, the whole structure of the series has changed a bit... well, you'll see once it's done. Thanks to all those who reviewed last time; it's greatly appreciated! :)

**Part Three: **Trepidation

It had been quite the Sorting ceremony. Not often did Rowena allow her self-control to slip, but tonight she had fought Godric fiercely for a student they both believed belonged in their own House. By the time they had finished their row over the fate of poor Alison Browne – who was eventually permitted to choose Ravenclaw – the next student in line was quivering like a leaf in a breeze. The young boy in question, one Wilmot Smyth, was promptly taken under Helga's wing. It only took a few questions for her identify him as her perfect student – modest, loyal and hard-working.

Helga had never noticed the change in Rowena more so than she did tonight. Ever since her only daughter, Helena, had turned eleven and arrived at Hogwarts, Rowena had seemed increasingly tense. Her outburst of emotion at the Sorting ceremony was, to Helga's mind, a desperate attempt to impress her daughter. But whenever Helga glanced over to the Ravenclaw table all she saw was Helena steadfastly ignoring her mother. Her pale eyes avoided the staff table and she traced patterns on the oak table top. Anything to avoid her mother.

Now, Helga treaded the lantern lit path from the Entrance Hall to her common room. She passed the kitchens and arrived at a seemingly innocuous stack of barrels piled on the right hand side. Smiling to herself, she took out her wand and tapped one in the middelt to the beat of her own name. The lid raised itself; she hitched up her dress and climbed inside. Somehow she couldn't imagine Salazar or Rowena entering their common rooms this way – Godric, maybe.

A cosy, earthy room opened up at the end of the tunnel. It was full of plants and yellow wall hangings, thick rugs and fat cushions. During the day, sunlight streamed over the grass and down through the high windows. Currently, the room was lit with only the low flames roaring in the hearth. A sea of nervous faces peered back at her. There were only twelve of them, but in the cramped room they seemed multiplied. Stood beside the first years was a fifth year girl Helga had appointed as a helper. She nodded at her.

"Thank you, Selena. You're dismissed."

Selena disappeared through one of the round, wooden doors set into the wall. The children watched in amazement.

"As you can see," said Helga, regaining their attention, "the doors lead to your dormitories. Boys, you will take the door on the right, and girls, the door on the left." And she pointed them out because it was impossible to know how much of an education they had prior to their arrival at Hogwarts. Some had no concept of left and right, much less which was which.

Helga sat in one of the tattered armchairs beside the fireplace. She beckoned at the children and they sat on the rugs in front of her. How many times had she done this? How many times had she lived the same moment, but with ever-changing faces and now a slightly older face of her own?

Honestly, she was beginning to lose count. Helga knew this could only be a good thing. It meant their school was a success.

"Welcome to Hufflepuff House," she said, beaming brightly in spite of the late hour. "I am Professor Hufflepuff and I'll be in charge of your education during your time at Hogwarts. You will take lessons with Professors Gryffindor, Ravenclaw and Slytherin as well, but it's me you should come to if you ever need help or assistance." She paused, before launching into the second part of her speech, the part that she emphasised more and more with each passing year. "Now during the Sorting Ceremony you will have heard a lot about bravery and intelligence and ambition from the other Professors – and not a lot from me. That doesn't make you any less worthy. In my eyes, at least, that makes you all the more worthy. Hufflepuff students don't shout about their achievements. Instead, I expect hard work, loyalty and modesty from you all. There's nothing wrong with modesty. It just means that, sometimes, people might underestimate you. Well to that I say... surprise them! Understand?"

It was hard to judge whether they did or didn't. Some looked rapt, their mouths wide open as they listened, whereas others seemed to be on the verge of sleep. One girl's head was drooping and her chin was bumping against her breastbone. Helga chuckled to herself. Maybe they didn't understand now, but soon they would.

She clapped her hands and announced, "Bed! I want to see you all in the Great Hall tomorrow, bright and early, so off to your dormitories. Off you go!" Yawning and stretching, they ambled off, leaving Helga to her thoughts.

She was no Seer. In fact, she was dubious about the whole art of Divination – that was Rowena's area. No, Helga followed her gut, not fanciful visions and crystal balls. The trouble was, her gut had nothing good to say. Or at least, more bad things than good these days. Their once unbreakable group was splintered and in danger of breaking completely; she could feel it. Rowena's only interest now was Helena. Her regret over the upbringing of the poor girl was palpable. And tensions between Godric and Salazar had never been higher. With each year, more Muggle-borns arrived at Hogwarts and with them Salazar's resentment grew.

_Salazar..._ Helga had hoped his bitterness would thaw over time, but if anything it grew worse. He was a stubborn man. He had his beliefs and he wouldn't shift from them. In a way, she admired him, even if she could never agree with him. To her he would always be the man who walked through the woods with her, conversing with snakes. The man she taught potions classes with. The man she was permitted to love as a _friend,_ and no more.

She barely realised she'd closed her eyes, tight. When she opened them again, the common room was empty – except for a skinny little boy with thick curly hair who was watching her curiously.

Helga started. "The door on the right, please, Wilmot," she said, nodding at it.

One thing Helga prided herself on was her ability to remember her students as individuals right from the beginning. And this was Wilmot Smyth, one of the truest Hufflepuffs she had Sorted that evening, who followed Alison Browne (eventually) of Ravenclaw. She knew him straight away.

"Yes, ma'm," he murmured.

Before he could move, her arm reached out automatically and wiped a splodge of gravy off his chin. "There." She smiled. "Now off to bed. Go on!"

And as he scrambled away, Helga got to her feet in the deserted common room. The fire had burned itself to the last embers; it glowed deep red like a sunset. A wave of exhaustion finally washed over her. It was a combination of a lack of sleep and the enthusiasm and excitement of the first day of school. Tomorrow she would awaken and it would start again, only ten times more intense. With a flick of her wand, she extinguished the last of the fire and climbed back out of the common room.

Helga Hufflepuff didn't tend to hate things. She certainly didn't hate people, and especially not Salazar. What she _did_ hate was her situation: that he felt one way when she felt the complete opposite, because for _no_body would she compromise her ethics.

* * *

_**A/N:**__ Thanks for reading! And please, if you can, take the time to review!_


	4. Part Four: Wavering

**Note: **Hey all! Thank you to the lovely people who reviewed the last chapter – I very much appreciate it!Also, I used the Pottermore instructions as inspiration for the potion mentioned in this update and went as far as brewing the potion in question while I was at it (You can thank me later, Slytherins!) Enjoy and please leave a review if you have time! :)

**Part Four: **Wavering

Salazar entered the dungeon six minutes late. Helga, who had kept an account of every passing second in her head, glanced up and gave him a withering look.

"Professor Slytherin," she said. "At last."

"My pleasure," he countered smoothly, striding through the rows of cauldrons to the front of the classroom.

"Your _duty,"_ she answered, "actually." And she smiled as she said it – smiled so steadily that Salazar almost wanted to look away.

Not that the students, huddled around their cauldrons, noticed much of this. They were first years and they were understandably nervous. Most had never been within three feet of a cauldron in their lives. In their experience, cauldrons were dangerous, frothing creatures that lived in the corners of their home and which their mothers warned them to keep away from. Many, however, simply came from families too poor to own one.

Ignoring the petulance of Salazar Slytherin was something Helga was quickly becoming adept at. She would not question him on where he had been or why he was late because that was exactly what he wanted. Salazar thrived on power, and she knew he would simply love to withhold that knowledge from her. Secrets were his game, but Helga wouldn't play. She turned instead to the twenty-strong class.

"Good morning students!" she cried. "Welcome to your first lesson in the art of potion making! Here you'll be taught how to brew antidotes to various poisons, cures for common ailments, draughts to induce or revive from sleep – oh, what is it Professor Slytherin?" Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him shaking his head.

"You're scaring them," he muttered into her ear. "It seems you've over-estimated their knowledge."

Helga frowned at him, but upon turning her attention back to the students realised that he might be right. In the flickering, uneven light of the cauldron fire and the gloom of the dungeon, her students' faces looked ghostly and fearful. She relaxed into a reassuring smile. "Allow me to start again. Professor Slytherin informs me that I've ploughed ahead too quickly. It is not like him to be so sensitive, believe me." There was a scattering of uncertain chuckles; they sensed the humour in her tone. "But I agree. We need to start at the very beginning."

This was the first time they'd attempted to teach potion making to first years. Previously, it had only been taught to older students, such was the complexity of the art. Now they were discovering that their plans to start early were likely misguided. Salazar – who had tutored the rich children of pureblood families as a young man – certainly appeared exasperated.

But to Helga's great surprise he stepped forward and beckoned the children to the front of the room. "Gather around, please, that's it... come on now. I won't _bite." _

Helga was visited by the unexpected desire to laugh. She forced it back as images of the forest and Salazar's fluid, almost effortless conversations with snakes raced through her mind. Oh, he might not bite, not yet anyway, but he might well hiss and wasn't that just as deadly?

"Today," Salazar continued, oblivious, "Professor Hufflepuff and I shall demonstrate a how to brew a simple potion. Say... an antidote to common poisons?" he suggested to Helga.

She nodded. "A fine idea, Professor Slytherin."

"And in doing this I expect your upmost attention. We will show how to light your cauldron, how to prepare the ingredients and, above everything, show you that precision is vitally important. One slip of the hand or wrong turn of the spoon may be the difference between a correctly brewed potion – and a useless one." This speech had not exactly inspired confidence. "It sounds intimidating," said Salazar, "because it_ is_. I do not sugar my words." He faltered slightly under Helga's watchful stare. "But we will make this as smooth a demonstration as we can manage."

Helga held up a small black stone. "This is a Bezoar," she explained. "It comes from the stomach of goat." One girl, one of Helga's own students, Anwen Morgan, blanched at the mere thought. "I know it _sounds _unpleasant, but this little stone could save a life."

A few of the children 'oohed' at this; Salazar's eyes flicked towards the ceiling. "Shall we begin?" he muttered.

He and Helga made an effective team, if not a particularly smooth one. Helga was, at heart, a cook. She approached the potion in the same way she approached a pie. She crushed the Bezoar with the same deftness and strength that she rolled pastry. Salazar, however, was far less haphazard. To him, nothing mattered more than accuracy. He measured out the mistletoe berries with unerring precision. And he incurred Helga's wrath for a snapping _"Don't touch that!"_ at a boy whose hands strayed too close to the powdered unicorn horn. But in the end, it more or less worked out.

"I do believe we turned that into a success, Professor Hufflepuff," Salazar said. The students had already streamed out of the classroom and 'Professor Hufflepuff' was just his little joke.

Helga laughed and it rang shrilly in the empty dungeon. "It certainly could have gone worse," she agreed, summoning glass vials from the cabinet. "Here. Help me bottle this."

The air in the room still wavered with the mist of potion fumes, and when Helga kneeled beside the pewter cauldron she noticed that heat continued to rise from it, though the fire had been extinguished. Salazar sat beside her.

They bottled the potion in comfortable silence and considerably slower than was necessary. In fact, to Helga, everything was beginning to seem slow. She felt, but refused to acknowledge Salazar's eyes trained on her. A sudden flush climbed her neck. She rubbed at it. What did he want? Did he not realise how irritating he was being?

With a thrill of horror and sense of intrusion, she remembered. Hadn't Godric said, hadn't he warned, that Salazar practised the strange art of Legilimency? Helga turned her head very slowly, as if she was submerged. It was very much like being beneath water.

She was sure she did not see him move, nor hear the words he uttered. Instead, it was his breath on her collarbone and then his pressing lips that she found herself leaning in to.

And though it was beyond her understanding, she was sure that it was what she wanted. Helga had always been very firm about what she wanted.

But she was equally firm on what was right and what was wrong. That was the problem.

Her mind replayed his earlier comment – _"I won't bite"_ – and her own reaction to it. After all, didn't she decide that his hiss was every bit as deadly as his bite? It definitely seemed that way, she realised, noticing the darkness in his eyes when she gently pushed him away.

"Salazar – "

A low growl emanated from deep in his throat; he jumped to his feet, shaking his head.

"Oh, Salazar, wait!"

He stalked out of the room.

Helga stood up shakily. She stared with vague eyes at what they had created – great, swirling goblet-fulls of an antidote that would never be used. But oh, how they needed it. She placed the bottles in the dusty cupboard instead. They were salve for a wound too big and a poison too vicious. Salazar _hated _that he had given into her; she could sense it. He seethed and, with a sinking heart, Helga knew that his anger would feed something terrible. She acknowledged now what she had fought so hard not to.

That their union – the four of them – was beyond mending.

Potions were truly a complex art, she thought, numb fingers skimming the vials lined up in the cabinet. She closed the cupboard door resignedly. Perhaps the problem was that they were not complex enough. Nothing could solve this.

* * *

_A/N: Thanks for reading! Leave a review and tell me what you think!_


	5. Part Five: Departure

**Note: **Apologies that this chapter took a little longer than I expected. But it's an important one, and I wanted to get it right. Thank you to everyone who's reviewed! I'm very grateful for your support! Also, this is **not** the last chapter, though it might seem like it. There's still one more to go! Enjoy, and please review! :)

**Part Five: **Departure

At first, there had genuinely been nothing to worry about. Yes, they quarrelled, but it was friendly, affectionate and, above all, their passion for Hogwarts rendered it irrelevant. In the years that followed, when excitement had been replaced by something far steadier, the quarrels _did_ matter.

It was probably too harsh, too black and white, to blame their entire downfall on Salazar Slytherin. But when one man's views clash so starkly with the others, what can be done?

The answer arrived one spring morning when all hell broke loose.

* * *

Helga wasn't one for favourites. She was a staunch believer in equality – it was the very basis of Hufflepuff House. However, she made one exception during her time as a teacher. He was a curly-haired little boy named Wilmot Smyth and he arrived at Hogwarts unable to read or write. In that, he was not unusual; many of their students couldn't.

Wilmot was slightly special, though, because he had a habit of taking his letters from home to Helga so she could read them to him. One lazy afternoon, the sun shining hazily through the high windows of the Hufflepuff Common, he ran up her, a leaf of parchment clutched in his hand.

Helga was merrily sewing by the fireside. "What is it, Wilmot?" she asked though she knew perfectly well what he wanted.

"Please, Professor Hufflepuff, ma'am," he blustered. "Could you read this letter for me? It's from my mother – I think – and I haven't heard nothing from her in near three months!"

"Of course I could, Wilmot. Sit beside me and I'll take a look!" Beaming, he settled beside her. "Remember to treat this as a lesson," Helga reminded him, trying and failing to be stern. "I expect you to learn from this."

He nodded. She cleared her throat and turned to the parchment. She didn't say a word. She _couldn't._

Wilmot Smyth did indeed learn a lesson that day; it was the cruellest and most important lesson life could deal.

The letter was from a neighbour, not his mother. His mother was dead and he, having no father, was an orphan.

Helga cried more than he did when she eventually told him.

From then on he stayed at Hogwarts every summer and she took to calling him Will, the name his mother had always used in her letters.

* * *

"Good morning, Helga, Salazar, Godric." Rowena's tone was subdued. She had drifted into the Great Hall ten minutes after breakfast officially started, her eyes lowered and her hands tightly clasped before her. It was not usual to see Rowena quite so wraith-like and downcast. In the years previously, she had strode into the hall purposefully, confident in her own beauty and wit. But now Helena was missing and so the definition of usual had changed.

Salazar didn't answer her, save for the briefest inclination of his head. His heavy, gold locket engraved with a serpentine 'S' was hanging around his neck. He rarely wore it, but today he twisted the chain around his fingers almost obsessively. Godric smiled at her, though it was oddly strained, and Helga, ever concerned, felt like reaching out and taking her friend's hand. "I see you're still not wearing the diadem," she remarked as Rowena took her seat.

"No. It's safely locked away. It's hard to place too much confidence in one's intelligence, when one's own daughter..."

There was a pause. "I understand," Helga said, though how could she possibly?

They ate in silence, Helga getting the distinct impression that no one was enjoying their food. She could scarcely enjoy her own and it was one of her best recipes. The sky, visible through the enchanted ceiling, was dark and dull, the rain-leaden clouds stirring slowly.

Salazar stood up. The eyes of the other Founders turned to him, but he offered no explanation, only stepped down from the Top Table. Without a word, he walked past the long house tables, past even his own students, towards the doors. Helga was bewildered. She had seen Salazar withdrawn and angry before – many times – but not without provocation. His recent behaviour, by comparison, was utterly peculiar. She shot a questioning, pleading look at Godric who got to his feet with a sigh and followed his old friend. "Professor Slytherin!" he called. Salazar turned in the doorway.

"What is it, _Professor_ Gryffindor?" he gritted out.

Helga sat back in her chair, only mildly relieved. She couldn't hear exactly what Godric and Salazar were saying to each other, but it didn't sound entirely amicable. She had hoped Godric would be able to rouse Salazar from his sulk. Instead, from what she could gather, they had got into a heated disagreement about whose turn it was to use the school brooms. Their voices climbed higher and higher, resounding off the walls.

Despairingly, she turned to Rowena who was pushing food around her plate; none of it had been eaten. She was, Helga realised, exceptionally pale.

" – your arrogance astounds me!" Salazar sneered.

"_Mine?"_ Godric snapped.

The students were beginning to twist around in their seats. Helga gripped the table top hard; panic bubbled in her throat. She saw Salazar's hand twitch towards his robe pocket where he kept his wand. That was it. She jumped to her feet and fought to remain composed as she marched up to the pair of them. "Is this really the time and place?" she muttered.

Salazar refused to meet her eyes, while Godric stood beside her breathing heavily. "I'm using the brooms, Salazar," he said. "It was arranged. I have a lesson to teach."

Salazar said nothing. He only laughed quietly, ignoring Helga's pained expression, before sweeping away into the Entrance Hall.

Godric placed a hand on Helga's shoulder. "This, I fear," he muttered, "is not over." Sadly, she was all too aware that he wasn't simply talking about brooms.

* * *

Helga was down in the Hufflepuff common room, later that afternoon, tidying away spell books and pieces of balled up parchment, when she heard it – a bang that made the walls around her tingle. Her students looked around in alarm. "You should all – stay here – yes, I'll go and find out what's happening. Stay in the common room!" Her words stumbled out breathlessly. She clambered out of the common room, her heart hammering against her ribcage.

Raised voices drifted down the hall towards her. She started running, her robes pulled up around her ankles. She raced past the kitchens and up the steps to the Entrance Hall.

Godric's words repeated in her mind. _"This is not over."_

And there he was, Godric Gryffindor, his red hair wild and more mane-like than usual. For the first time in all the years she known him, the man she called a brother, Helga felt a little afraid. There was a look in Godric's green eyes that she had never seen before. He stood, poised and still, with his wand arm extended.

Another of thrill fear shocking her, Helga realised exactly who his wand was aimed at.

"Salazar..."

His head turned at the sound of her whisper. He too had his drawn his wand. It was pointed squarely at Godric's chest. Salazar's pale eyes lingered on her for moment, before he flung back his arm and roared. A streak of red light shot from the end of his wand.

Godric yelled in anger, but he was not known as the best dueller in Britain for no reason. He leapt aside, casting a shield charm so strong it blasted a crack in the balustrade running along the sweeping marble staircase. Helga screamed, but her voice was lost among the shouts of the duellers and the barrage of spells they were now firing at each other. _"Stop it!"_ she cried, as they circled one another like animals. Neither responded.

Rowena came running down the staircase, her face now chalk-white. "The children," she mouthed at Helga, pointing a shaky hand.

A few scared children had wandered into the hall, curious about the noise. Just one stray spell... that was all it would take. Helga hustled them into the Great Hall.

"What's happening?"

"Is this a demonstration, Professor?"

"Yes, yes, just a demonstration," she soothed. "_Please _do not worry." She shut the hall door just as a spell emanating from Godric's wand wildly missed its target. Instead it connected with one of the shiny hourglasses they'd had installed only last summer to keep a tally of house points. The glass shattered – there was an almighty crash as hundreds of rubies poured out over the flagstone floor.

There was a brief lull in the duel, before, suddenly, Salazar laughed. His voice echoed around the room. "Felled by your own spell, Godric? How pitiful."

Godric sent a stunner at his former friend. It was deflected, but barely. Salazar flicked his wand too lazily, too confident in his abilities, and stumbled. His face twisting into a snarl, he aimed another hex at Godric. The spells shot between them became a frantic blur of light. It was impossible to tell which way the duel would go. Helga's eyes flickered towards Rowena, waiting on the stairs, who looked sad, but resigned. How could she just _stand _there?

Helga couldn't fathom it. She wanted to run between them and tear the wands from their hands. This was madness. To watch everything they'd worked so hard for being torn apart, was a pain like she'd never experienced.

There was a bang – the loudest yet – and Salazar was thrown backwards, off his feet. He sprawled across the stone floor. His cheek had been cut open and was running with blood, and his wand spilled from his fingers.

"_Accio wand!" _was uttered and it leaped into the air, evading a last ditch swipe by its rightful owner. It flew, instead, straight into the waiting hand of Godric Gryffindor. He had won.

Dead silence followed. Salazar remained on the ground, his eyes boring into Godric's. Helga finally caught her breath.

* * *

Salazar was humiliated. He lay on the cold floor of the Entrance Hall, listening to the blood pounding throughout his body. His hand clasped at thin air – for Godric was standing above him holding _his_ wand. He itched to snatch it back and curse the Muggle loving fool, but he suppressed the urge. Salazar was a proud pureblood – he knew the rules and so he knew when a duel was lost.

Slowly, he lifted a hand and wiped the blood from his cheek. His mouth was filled with an earthy, metallic taste. Bitter.

"Salazar." He shut his eyes briefly. It was Helga. Why wouldn't she shut up? Why did she keep bleating his name? She moved towards him, past Godric, and held out her hand. There was a moment, the briefest flicker, in which Salazar considered taking it.

But he didn't. He stood easily enough without her aid, remembering how she had refused his own offered hand in the forest all those years ago.

"Your wand," said Godric, and he threw it at Salazar's feet. "Surprised?" He smiled darkly. "_I've_ not changed, Salazar. Even against my better judgement, I would never send a man out into the world without his wand. And you _are_ leaving. It's not what I wanted and I tried to help you, but now I realise: you are beyond reason."

Out of the corner of his eye, Salazar saw Helga open her mouth, but no sound came out.

"Oh, be under no illusions, Godric," he said. "I have no desire to stay in this place. I hope you understand what you've done to it."

Godric sighed. He looked weary and aged as he turned and walked away. "Goodbye, Salazar."

Helga, though, continued to linger unsurely, even after Godric and Rowena had disappeared up the stairs.

"Go on!" Salazar spat at her. "Run to him. Run to your precious Godric!"

Helga turned to him, her face blazing. "He is no more precious to me than you are." Her tone rang with fury. "You should have realised that by now, Salazar: I have _no_ favourites. I love you all equally." And as suddenly as her anger appeared, it was gone, and her voice softened, "I love you _differently_, yes, but equally."

Helga looked around at the vastness of their beautiful Entrance Hall, cracked and battered now with the remnants of battle. They had everything. How was that not enough? "This school – it's supposed to be a haven, a place of safety for our students. And look what you've turned it into." She gently touched the cut on his cheek. "Violence and conflict. We cannot go on as we are. Unless you change – "

"Never," Salazar insisted. He could change his views no more than she could.

Helga's head dropped, perhaps hiding tears.

He took her hands in his own, and was surprised when she did not pull them away. "My dear, dear Helga. They – you can't begin to know what they've done! My family, my home... all ruined. They hate us, Helga. We're nothing but _vermin_ to them. Dirt."

"No, no – " She was openly sobbing now. "The Muggles fear us. It's different. Tolerance _will _come. It will! One day, you'll see."

He shook his head. "I can't. I can't see it."

"So you refuse?"

"Only because I'm right, Helga."

At last, she loosed her hands from his. "We'll never agree, will we?"

He knew she was right, but he couldn't bear to admit it. "Come with me!" he said and that, at least, was enough to shock her into looking up. Salazar Slytherin never _begged._

"I – I can't," she cried. "How can you put me through this? To pull me one way, a way I cannot go, and to tempt my heart. It's wicked!"

"Then come."

"I cannot! My duty is to the school, Salazar. As yours' was, once."

Salazar swallowed. He had long since known the day would come when he had to leave Hogwarts. But Helga had often played on his mind: would he be departing alone or would she follow?

Now, at last, he knew.

He stepped up and cupped her face in his hands. Too surprised to protest, she allowed him to kiss her forehead. "Oh, go to Godric," he said, this time without malice. "He'll surely need your tending after all of this."

Helga laughed at that. It was a strange, unexpected sound and it would be the last Salazar heard at Hogwarts, before he turned on his heel and walked through the oak doors without looking back.


	6. Part Six: Dissolution

**Note:** This chapter took a little longer than I expected. I kind of forgot how much I needed write to wrap it up! So much for the three short oneshots I had planned when I started this. But still, here it is – the last part. I hope it's okay! In any case, I'm probably going to be writing more Founders stuff in the future. It's such an interesting era! Thanks to everyone who's reviewed, faved and/or alerted... it's been much appreciated. :)

**Part Six: **Dissolution

Helga was sat in library when Will barged in. She had been cataloguing a book on runes – the last Rowena wrote before she fell too seriously ill to continue writing. It was the approach of clumpy footsteps and the sudden shadow falling across her desk that informed Helga of her adopted son's arrival.

"What is it, Will?"

She looked up and noted with alarm the worried expression on his face.

He brushed a hand through hair that had grown wilder and curlier with age; had it been red instead of blonde, he might have reminded her of a young Godric. "It's – the children," Will stuttered, "they're talking again."

Helga slowly put down her quill. "Talking? What about?" As she said it, a memory flashed through her mind – Salazar, turning and storming out of the Entrance Hall without so much as a backward glance. But, of course, that was years ago and she had always known that he would never return.

"They've seen _her _again," Will said, his voice becoming hushed. "They're refusing to go up the Astronomy tower. At first, it was just one or two of them, but now they're all saying it. Don't know whether to believe it, myself. Though if they're _all _saying it, ma'am..."

"Oh, _Wilmot_, well I'm sure it's nonsense. Honestly, dear!"

In fact, Helga knew perfectly well what the rumours were saying. She had heard the students whispering in the hall over breakfast or at the back of her Charms classes. Helena Ravenclaw had returned to Hogwarts.

Though she herself had not seen her, Helga did not doubt her presence in the castle for a moment.

Helena had returned in the worst imaginable circumstances. Those who didn't know better called her The Grey Lady. Her eyes were round and sorrowful, they said, and as sharp as ice. She would not go near a living person. If you caught her eye, she faded back into the shadows as if she was born of them.

But whatever the truth was, Helga just didn't have the time to investigate. Helena was now clearly beyond help, so there was little point. Even as a small girl, she had insisted on doing everything for herself, but where had it got her? Helga's time was now divided between running the school with Godric and tending to her dying friend. And the less poor Rowena knew about her daughter's return, the better.

* * *

"Helga! Welcome."

She smiled as widely as she could manage. These days, everything was a little strained. "Evening, Godric."

The two professors had agreed to convene in Godric's quarters for dinner. Helga brought the food – a cheese and onion pie – and Godric brought, in his own words, the charming company. "Take a seat," he said. Godric's rooms were every bit as cosy as the Hufflepuff common room, but rather more showy. Every inch of stone floor was covered in the colourful rugs he had collected on his various travels. Tapestries depicting an assortment of magical creatures hung from the walls. Helga lowered herself in one of the rickety wooden chairs by the fireside. Though it was only early autumn, she felt strangely chilly and welcomed the rush of warmth.

Godric took a seat across the table from her, and he dug into the pie before speaking. "How was Rowena today?" he asked.

"Oh, mostly unchanged," Helga said. The room had filled with a delicious savoury scent, but all it did was twist Helga's stomach.

"Is that good or bad?"

Helga shrugged, her shoulders hunched. "Neither," she admitted. "Her cough seems worse. It wracks her chest like nothing I've ever known – but she's sleeping now, and quite peacefully. Tomorrow I'll brew another Calming Draught which should help to settle her."

Godric nodded; she understood that while he didn't really know what to say or how to comfort her, he was there. She turned to the window and the black night beyond it. It was cloudy, and so unlit by moon or stars. The top of the forest and the vast sky above it blurred into one. "Oh, Helga," she heard Godric mutter, as if from a great distance. "Please. Don't cry."

Embarrassed, she rubbed at her cheeks. That they had grown damp with tears had passed her notice until Godric mentioned it. "I'm terribly sorry, Godric," she sniffed. "I don't know why I'm crying. Rowena certainly wouldn't like it and my silly tears will do her no good."

"You've done all you can for her," Godric insisted. "More than I ever could." He pushed a plate towards her. "Come now. Eat, before all the good slices are gone. You know what I'm like!"

When Helga smiled at him this time, it was honest and heartfelt. She obediently ate a little and felt much better for it. Their talk moved away from Rowena's plight onto happier matters – funny students, tiring classes and the battle for the House Cup. "I still say my students will surprise you!" Godric said. He had summoned a flagon of mead via a helpful house elf. "The Ravenclaws and Slytherins may have dominated these last few years, but this year, I'm certain, is_ mine_."

Helga snorted. "Forgive me, Godric, but don't you say that every year?"

"True, true!" Godric admitted, laughing heartily. Helga felt a rush of admiration for him in that moment – how he managed to remain upbeat after the loss of his great friend, whilst now facing the loss of another was beyond her. Nonetheless, she had lately detected a slight change in Godric's behaviour. He seemed more restless than usual. Perhaps it was the muted summer they'd just spent, tending to Rowena – but somehow, Helga suspected it was something deeper.

"Godric?" she said. "Forgive me – again – but I feel I've rather forgotten you. With Rowena's illness and Helena's situation and training Will up to teach, well, we've neglected each other, have we not?"

Godric looked taken aback. "You are sweet, Helga. But me? You worry about me? I am a grown man. Healthy and robust and as well-bearded as I have ever been!"

Helga chuckled – she felt obliged – but refused to be thrown off. He was no Salazar, he was far more open, and she knew he would relent. "Really, Godric. Are you sure? You seem... changed."

"I worry, Helga," he said slowly, his smile now slightly crooked, "that age has crept up on me unexpectedly. In the past, I felt nothing but invincibility." He took a deep swig from his lion emblazoned tankard. "But ever since Salazar and I duelled..."

"_You_ won," Helga reminded him gently.

He sighed. "I know. But it was a black victory: the blackest of my life."

Without provocation, Helga's hand snuck out across the table and squeezed his. "You did what was right," she said. "I've always known that. He had to go. No matter how much we loved him." She stood up, knowing that Godric, who was sat with his head bowed, would answer no further. "I think I shall retire. Rowena is being tended by house elves, but I want to check her over before I go to bed." Helga paused in threshold. "Goodnight, Godric."

Lost in thought, he didn't answer.

* * *

Alongside the rumours of The Grey Lady, another whisper was growing: that Helga Hufflepuff was unhappy.

She was well known for her cheery disposition, so the rumours were particularly unsettling. The truth, however, was somewhat different.

Helga was perfectly content most of the time. Her days were spent as busily as ever – teaching, helping in the Hospital Wing, reading to Rowena during her lucid moments, overseeing the house elves in the kitchen and walking in the grounds with Godric. Hogwarts still filled her with the same enthusiasm it always had and continued to give her a purpose. Her problems arose when night fell, after she had checked on her common room and made sure Rowena was settled. It was then that her body ached for sleep, but her mind wouldn't allow it. At first she tried she tried lying in bed, waiting and waiting, believing that sleep would come if her mind grew tired enough. When that didn't work, she started writing out Charms theory until the inevitable boredom kicked in. Boredom arrived, but sleep didn't.

Wrapping a cloak around herself, she took to the shadowy halls. Of course, she could easily have brewed herself a Dreamless Sleep potion, but she was honestly rather curious about her new-found restlessness. Something was keeping her awake, a feeling that she couldn't quite identify. It made her hair prickle and her mind race. She always ended up in the Entrance Hall. A sense of both calm and expectation settled over her when she sat quietly on the stairs. On some nights, moonlight pierced the window above the door, softly illuminating the hall. On others, falling rain roared against the stone walls and when winter arrived, the driving rain became snow, and Helga found herself shivering on the steps.

Her sleepless nights did not go uninterrupted. Occasionally one of the teachers or caretakers passed by and saw her sitting on the stairs. They always paused, ready to open their mouths and chastise what, at first, appeared to be a student out of bed after hours. On second glance, they recognised her huddled form for what it was and it became a given that Helga Hufflepuff could be found in the Entrance Hall at night, curiously still and silent.

She was waiting – waiting and willing his return.

* * *

It was mid-winter. Frequent blizzards and snow drifts plagued the Scottish Highlands. Helga was teaching a small group of seventh year pupils in the dungeons. Her breath rose as mist in the air and they all crowded around the flaming cauldrons for warmth.

"Now a blood-replenishing potion is far more complex than last week's Awakening Draught," she explained. "You could spend months just sourcing the ingredients. It requires over twenty different parts, none of which are easy to find."

She stopped. The dungeon door banged open and a boy of about fifteen nearly tripped across the threshold. Judging by the scarlet trim on his robes, he was one of Godric's students. "Professor Hufflepuff," he panted. "You're needed."

Helga frowned. "And I am needed _here,_ too. Who's sent you?" In truth, she probably knew who – and why.

"Professor Gryffindor, miss." He boy hesitated, seeming unwilling to return to questioning look. "I – he said he needs you, if you'd please come. Professor Ravenclaw needs you, too."

Helga left at once, sending her students to their common rooms to study. She walked as quickly as she could through the castle, staying resolutely in control so as not to cause a panic. There hadn't been a genuine panic at Hogwarts since Salazar left, and Helga was determined to keep it that way. She arrived at Rowena's room where Godric was stood in the doorway looking slightly lost.

She hardly dared ask. "Am I too late?"

He shook his head. "Just in time, I'd say."

Helga followed him into Rowena's room where she lay, still and pale, in her four poster bed. "What happened?" she asked.

Godric was now standing by the window, watching sheets of snow drift past the pane. He was silent for a long while, and when he did at last speak, his voice was unnaturally subdued. "I decided to sit with her," he said. "I had an hour or so to spare. I was talking to her – nonsense really – but when I took her hand she – she cried out. Very suddenly. It made me jump." He looked helplessly at Rowena's unconscious form. "And now her breathing's slowed completely. She's awfully cold, Helga."

Helga shook. She could not blame the bitter weather because the fire in Rowena's room was burning constantly. If anything, it was uncomfortably warm in there. Tentatively she grasped Rowena's wrist. Godric was right – her skin was cold and clammy to the touch and her breathing was so shallow she could be mistaken for dead.

Helga took a seat at the bedside. She gestured for Godric to do the same, but he was hesitant. "You say she cried out when you took her hand?" Helga asked.

"Yes."

"I see." Helga gently stroked her friend's long, dark hair which was splayed across the pillow. This was truthfully the worst she had ever seen her. "Forgive me, Godric, if what I'm about to say comes across as accusatory – but when was the last time you visited Rowena?"

"Excuse me, Helga?"

"How long has it been since you visited her?" she repeated, turning around to face him. She was treated to the rare sight of a flustered and spluttering Godric Gryffindor.

"Well I – I've been busy, as you know. And I sincerely hope you aren't trying to blame _this_ on me, Helga!"

Helga sighed. "No. No, you misunderstand me. I wondered, perhaps, if she's been hanging on through this dreadful illness to see an old friend, one more time. Though that still doesn't explain _why_ you've been avoiding her, Godric... busy? I think not."

He continued to linger by the window, and suddenly she understood.

"Ah. The great Godric Gryffindor," Helga whispered, "frightened."

Godric shifted his feet. He stared steadfastly at the floor. "I could not bear to see her so weak. Foolish, I know."

"A little," Helga conceded, smiling at him. "Silly man. Sit down."

"What can we do for her?" Godric asked immediately. "Are you going to brew something?"

"No. You said it yourself earlier – I arrived just in time, but not to help. To _wait._ Waiting is all we can do now."

Godric leapt forward in his seat; she could sense that he was on the verge of an argument. "But Helga – "

"She's all but gone, Godric. There's no sense prolonging it."

They waited. Afternoon wore on into the evening. Snow continued to fall and the fire eventually burnt out. Helga and Godric scarcely spoke; they scarcely did anything but sit. Helga had expected to cry, yet she didn't. In a way, after months of suffering for all of them, it was a blessed relief. Rowena did not regain consciousness. They waited all night until shortly after dawn when the second Founder left Hogwarts.

* * *

In the weeks that followed Rowena's death, Helga and Godric were extremely busy. After appointing a permanent Head of Ravenclaw House, they travelled to the Scottish village of Rowena's birth for her funeral. She was to be buried with her husband, Raghnall, who was many years her senior and had died only a few years into their marriage.

"Granted, I never knew them when they were married, but Rowena hardly ever _mentioned_ her husband! I don't understand why she wanted to be buried with him. She lived independently for most of her life." Helga was talking more to herself than to Godric. They were organising Rowena's possessions, of which there were many.

Godric was sorting through a towering stack of books. "And I didn't know them as a couple either, Helga. By the time Salazar and I met Rowena, Raghnall had already died – though only just." He started flicking through one the thickest books, his eyebrows raised. "All I know is that Rowena was very young when they married. She always gave the impression that there was no major passion between them, but I believe they had great respect for one another."

"Have you come across the diadem at all?" Helga asked. Rowena had stopped wearing it when Helena vanished, but she claimed to have stored it in her chambers somewhere.

"No, not yet. I'm sure we'll find it."

They did not. The funeral approached and with the diadem still not found, it was given up for missing. Instead Helga and Godric returned Rowena's body to her Scottish village without it. Their journey was treacherous, the wintery weather unrelenting. Two thoughts occupied Helga's mind: would Salazar turn up at the funeral or would he perhaps, taking advantage of their absence, make a return to Hogwarts?

She confessed these suspicions to Godric, but he didn't seem overly concerned. "Oh, I wouldn't worry about Salazar," he said with a wry smile. "He still has his pride. You know, if Rowena had waited for Salazar as well, I think she would've lived forever."

Helga never got the chance to explain that she wasn't _worried_ about Salazar exactly. It was easier, though, to let Godric assume that that was what she meant. In any case, both of Helga's theories proved untrue. The two remaining Founders returned to Hogwarts to find it exactly as they had left it. Salazar had not made an appearance at the funeral nor had he snuck back into the school in their absence.

Roughly a year after Rowena's death, Helga felt compelled to pass on her treasured golden cup to Will. He wasn't her blood, but blood had never mattered much to Helga. Will turned it over in his rough hands, frowning, though clearly pleased. "Why are you giving it to me?" he asked. "Are you going somewhere?"

"Nowhere, dear. Not yet. I'd just rather you held onto to it for awhile."

Meanwhile, Godric seemed to grow increasingly restless. He regressed, it seemed, from an accomplished teacher back into the wily traveller he had been in his youth. Helga often watched him from the castle windows. He wandered the grounds at all hours, impatient for adventure.

One midsummer's evening, a few weeks from the start of a new school year, Godric arrived in Helga's quarters with a proposition. "Good evening, Helga," he said, his grin very wide indeed. "And if I may say so, you have an exquisite glow about you tonight!"

She was sat at her desk surrounded by piles of parchment and mountains of books, busily preparing for the upcoming term. If there was any such glow, it was a result of exhaustion. She simply laughed. "Really, Godric. Flattery will get you nowhere with me, or have you learned nothing over all these years? What do you want?"

"Oh, _Helga."_ He placed a hand over his heart in a mock grand gesture. "You do wound me." After a pause he, too, laughed. "Fine, fine. I've come to ask your permission."

Permission? Helga was justifiably wary. Knowing Godric, it could be anything. "You don't want a dragon, do you?" she asked.

"No, not a dragon. I had hairy incident with a Hebridean Black once. Have I told you that story?"

"Yes. More than once."

"Well, in any case, I've gone off the idea of a dragon. A chimaera however...?"

"You cannot have a chimaera, Godric."

He waved away her concerns. "Well, fine – but what I really wanted to ask for was your blessing."

Helga laughed. "Are you to be wed?"

"Ha! Going travelling, I hope. If you consent to it. Term starts in a matter weeks, I know, and I can assure you I would be back in time."

Honestly – and perhaps selfishly – Helga was reticent to give her consent. "Where?" she enquired, stalling for time.

Godric took a seat opposite her desk. "The Hollow," he told her, speaking the name with soft reverence, "the west English village in which I was born. I still own a house there, though I haven't visited it in years." His eyes seemed to cloud over and he heaved a sigh. "I haven't travelled for _so _long now; it was once such a huge part of my life."

"I know," Helga reminded him. "That was how you found me." She smiled to herself, remembering the man with the booming voice and outrageous tales, who walked into The Green Dragon one day and effectively changed her life.

Godric jumped to his feet suddenly, jolting her out of her reminiscence. "Forgive me, Helga, forgive me. It was selfish of me to ask, forget it – a foolish man's indulgence, nothing more." He was almost at the door and Helga was just about prepared to let him leave and the matter be forgotten. Her conscience berated her, however, and she spoke up at the last moment.

"I wouldn't object to you leaving," she said, even though it was far from the truth. If was she was utterly honest, she didn't want him to go. Without Godric, she would be so alone.

His eyes lit up. "Really?"

"Yes, of course. But – " She pointed at the sword hanging from his belt. " – You can leave that garish thing here, please. I don't want you getting into any more trouble than necessary."

Godric laughed – it was the same laugh that had once boomed around the parlour at The Green Dragon. "Naturally!" With a flourish, he removed his beloved sword and placed it on her desk. "In fact, I can do even better than that." And he whipped off his hat and placed that on her desk too.

Helga stared at it. "You fool," she said, erupting with laughter. "What on earth would I want with your hat?"

"It's something I've been mulling over for a while. When Rowena died, it made me realise that none of us is going to live forever. And yes, we've managed thus far. The appointed Heads of Slytherin and Ravenclaw have done an admirable job of choosing students that Salazar and Rowena would've approved of. But remember – they knew Salazar and Rowena personally. They were taught by them. One day, we'll_ all_ be gone, and what then? Hogwarts will be eventually be in the hands of people who didn't know us at all."

"That was inevitable," Helga reminded him.

"Oh, I know, I know. I just worry that our influence and the standards we set for our Houses will be lost or changed over time. This hat, Helga, could be the solution to our problem." He held it up. The candlelight threw it into unflattering focus. It looked patched, frayed and distinctly ordinary.

Helga knew that looks could be deceiving. She was a famously open-minded and accepting woman. But in this case, she was doubtful. Not all of Godric's schemes had happy endings. "A hat?" she said. "A hat that does our job?"

"Think about it, Helga!" Godric's voice bubbled with boyish enthusiasm; she had not seen him this happy in months. "We could enchant it. Put _our _thoughts inside it. You're talented with charms. We could alter it so that when a new student puts it on, it takes a look inside their head and sees where they best fit."

"Sounds intrusive."

"But undoubtedly effective. Salazar and I actually discussed similar ideas before he left. It was his ability as a Legilimens that convinced me the hat would work."

"I never liked that side of him," Helga mumbled. She had to admit, though, that Godric's idea had potential. If all the students had to do was try on a hat, the Sorting Ceremony would be even quicker than it was now. "Leave the hat with me, Godric. I'll try and work some magic on it. You're free to leave for the Hollow – as long as you give me your word that you'll back before the first day of term."

"You have my word," he promised. Grinning, he bounded towards the door, looking younger with each step. "Goodnight, Helga, and thank you."

"Oh, Godric, one moment!" Helga stood and grabbed the sword by its ruby encrusted handle. It was heavier than she expected, but she managed to lift it up. "Here," she said, "take it!" She threw the sword into the air and Godric caught it by the handle.

"Change of heart?"

She smiled sheepishly. "I've just always wanted to do that."

* * *

Time seemed to pass very slowly in Godric's absence.

Even though Helga had thousands of things to do before the school year started, her feelings of loneliness lingered. Hogwarts had always been a joint venture. It no longer felt that way. While it was true that she was surrounded by other teachers and caretakers, it was not the same. Godric, Salazar and Rowena were more than colleagues. Nothing and no one could replace them.

The start of term drew ever closer and still Godric had not returned. With each day that passed, a knot of foreboding tightened in Helga's chest. Punctuality had never been Godric's strong point, but he had promised not be late and she believed him. Outside the castle, the landscape shifted – autumn was approaching, rain fell more frequently and the air grew increasingly chilly. _Where was he?_

The day before the new term dawned and Helga woke with a sharp pain in her stomach. It refused to shift. She was not ill, she knew, merely worried. This was typical of Godric. Had he simply lost track of time? That afternoon, she and Will entered Godric's quarters in search of a student list.

"I've no idea where to begin looking," Helga was saying. "The desk is too obvious for Godric. He's ridiculously disorganised – "

Will grabbed her arm suddenly. "Look!" he gasped. "He's back!"

And sure enough, lying on the desk as though it had always been there, was his sword. Helga's heart soared. "Oh, Godric," she murmured. She had never been happier to see that garish weapon. It lay glinting in the early autumn sunlight. "No sign of his boots or cloak," she said, looking around. "Maybe he headed straight for the grounds."

"I'll go and look!" Will raced out of the room, equally excited to see Godric again.

Helga grinned to herself.

But Will was gone too long. He returned shrugging. "There's no sign of him, ma'am. No one saw him arrive either. I asked everyone I came across."

"Oh, well, no worry!" Helga's smile slipped only slightly. "I expect he's gone straight to his common room. We'll see him at dinner, I'm sure."

Dinner came and dinner went. Godric made no appearance. Helga couldn't eat. The stew seemed tasteless. The little that she could swallow swirled unpleasantly in her stomach, until she was sure she would vomit. She jumped to her feet. The hall swayed around her. She gripped the table and slowly the world steadied itself.

The sword... they had _seen_ the sword. So where _was_ he? Had it been only a figment of their imagination, a trick of the light? Had they really seen the sword? Before she knew it, she was running out of the hall, ignoring the voices of those around her. Helga ran without stopping back up the stairs to Godric's chamber.

It lay on the desk, untouched, exactly as it had been earlier that day. She reached out and stroked the hilt, which was boldly engraved with the name 'Godric Gryffindor'. It was cold and very real. Slowly she lifted the sword, despite its weight, and held it against her chest. It was _real._

"No," she moaned, her eyes tightly closed.

Helga knew little about goblin wrought weapons, but if this sword had returned without its master...

"Please, _no." _She slumped to the floor, still holding it, praying for enlightenment. The sword had returned to Hogwarts, but Godric Gryffindor had not. What else could that possibly mean? Helga wept.

There was no point pretending any longer: the greatest friendship she'd ever known had dissolved. With a quiet finality – more of sigh than a shout – their destruction was at last complete.

* * *

_Beneath the Great Hall ceiling, through which stars could be spotted amongst the enchanted falling snow, the students and teachers had gathered. It was the Winter Ball, held most years since Hogwarts was founded. _

_The House tables, laden with some of Helga's best dishes, had been pushed against the walls. In the middle of the floor people danced – twirling, twisting, and skipping along at a furiously upbeat pace. Helga and Rowena were sat at the Top Table clapping along with the dancers._

"_Salazar looks rather awkward, doesn't he?" Helga muttered. "He's technically gifted, but I don't think he's enjoying himself."_

"_Exactly," Rowena agreed. She watched Salazar with one eyebrow arched. "I'd say he looks as if he'd like nothing better than to escape."_

_Helga was forced to hide a very unladylike snort behind her handkerchief. "I couldn't agree more, Rowena." Godric, meanwhile, was full of enthusiasm despite lacking skill. He was whirling around the dance floor in high spirits, moving from partner to partner with relative ease. Salazar appeared far more reserved, and he wasted little time in extracting himself from the dance and returning to sit at the Top Table. _

"_You did admirably," Rowena said, the moment he was within earshot. She raised her goblet to him and inclined her head._

"_Wonderful," Helga added, hoping not to snort again. _

_Salazar scrutinised them; his expression was tinged with suspicion, but he couldn't seem to decide if they were genuine or not. Nevertheless, he accepted the goblet of wine Helga held out for him. "Godric looks a fool," he remarked, surveying the dancing from his new vantage point. _

"_Perhaps," said Rowena. "Although he doesn't seem to mind either way."_

"_He's enjoying himself, Salazar," Helga clarified. "Something you would do well to try, I think."_

_Salazar did not answer. The trio sat pensively until Godric removed himself from the festivities and marched up to them. His curly hair was far messier than usual and his manner was exuberant. "Well well!" he said, clasping his hands together. "You three look entirely too comfortable for my liking." He held out a hand to the women. "Anyone fancy a dance?"_

_To the surprise of everyone, it was Rowena who stood and took up Godric's offer. "It's a slow one," she said, shrugging. "I should be safe."_

_Godric chuckled. "With me? You have entirely too much faith, my dear!" Arm in arm, they returned to the dance floor, leaving Helga and Salazar alone at the table. For a long while, neither spoke, and when at last Salazar did, it was clear that he was still irritated with Helga's slight on his personality._

"_Your dress is common," he said._

_Helga spluttered. Her cheeks flared with sudden heat. "Excuse me?"_

"_Common," Salazar repeated, eyeing it._

_It was a silken robe in a dark orange shade. The colour reminded Helga of spiced pumpkin juice. But the cut, as Salazar had so rudely alluded, was low. Helga decided she didn't care._

"_And you are a horrible man who can't dance."_

_Salazar's head jerked as if he had been slapped, but he did not retort immediately. "Then _you_ are a liar," he muttered. "You told me I was a wonderful dancer."_

"_I was trying to be charitable," Helga said._

"_Actually I was taught formal dance by one of the finest tutors in the south east of England."_

"_Male? Pureblood?"_

"_Yes," Salazar said. His tone had changed. Pride, some might call it. Helga leaned towards irritatingly haughty. If there was ever a man to bring out the honesty in her personality, for better or worse, it was Salazar. _

"_If I were you," she told him in an undertone, "I would demand my galleons back." She took a demure sip of her drink. Salazar sat beside her in silent indignation._

_The current dance drew to a close before the flutists and drummers struck up a more upbeat melody. Rowena and several other dancers withdrew to the sides, though Godric did not. _

_Salazar finally deigned to speak. "I find it ironic, Helga. You sit in judgement of my dancing, yet you have not once taken to the floor yourself." _

_She smiled – a tactic that was always certain to annoy him. "I was a landlady, Salazar. Naturally I can dance. I was simply waiting for something more lively. And you know," she said, standing up, "I think this will do perfectly. Will you join me?"_

"_What?"_

"_Come along! I need a partner. Everyone else has already paired up."_

"_Nonsense. Simply extract Godric from whatever poor girl he's forced himself upon!"_

"_Oh no, Salazar." Helga's voice was playful. "I want the man who was taught by the finest dance tutor in south east England. Come now, hurry! Or the dance will be over."_

_If there was one thing Salazar Slytherin could not refuse, it was a challenge. He reluctantly followed Helga onto the dance floor. They danced for less than a minute – it was over in a flash. But Helga relished those moments. They were moments, she knew, that she would never have again: uncomplicated moments in which there was no talk of blood purity or strife. She could be close to Salazar, pressed up against his chest as they spun, and no one raised an eyebrow. She could laugh at his slightly stilted dancing and feel a rush of incredulity when he actually relaxed into it. When the song finished and they parted, it was with reluctance. Helga could not be sure that the feeling was mutual because Salazar would never say. She could only imagine that it was._

_Salazar kissed her hand. "Well danced, my lady."_

"_The same to you!"_

"_Oh! I impressed you this time, did I?"_

"_You were wonderful," Helga said, laughing. "And this time I mean it."_

_Salazar's expression was strange. He did not smile, but nor did he grimace. "Well... thank you."_

_It was a surreal moment: the tranquillity of the enchanted snow competing with a tumult of unspoken emotions. "I should find Rowena," said Helga after a pause._

"_Yes," Salazar agreed. "And I, Godric." He lingered for a moment, distracted. "Helga, your robes – what I said – "_

"_Was rude?" she finished for him. "And entirely none of your business?"_

_He managed a curt nod. "Mm."_

"_And you're... sorry?" Helga wondered if this was the closest Salazar had ever been to an apology. _

"_Yes." He walked away. He didn't _say_ sorry, but he mouthed it – so quickly that Helga nearly missed it – before vanishing back into the crowd._

* * *

The mystery of Godric Gryffindor became part of Hogwarts. No one knew where he had gone or why, or if he was dead or alive. No one except Helga Hufflepuff and her adopted son, Will, knew that his sword had returned to Hogwarts alone. As far as anyone else was aware, it had simply never left. Helga decided to leave the sword in his room. He had no heirs so it belonged now to Gryffindor students, present and future. They were his true legacy.

Rumours flew about the school for awhile. Many were wild: that he'd been eaten by a Common Welsh Green or that he'd duelled the Giant Squid and lost. The school was alive with speculation until, like all other things, people forgot to remember.

No one knew the truth and Helga suspected that no one ever would. She herself knew only two things for certain. Firstly, the sword had left its master and returned alone, and secondly, he had _promised_ to return on time. These facts combined told her all she needed to know: that she would never see Godric Gryffindor again. 'Why' didn't matter. Perhaps she would be happier not knowing. Had old age crept up on him, the journey too much? Had a simple mishap befallen him? A duel misjudged or a stray spell?

Or had an old friend spied a chance for revenge?

But she would never know. It was all pointless speculation. And Helga had to be strong for the sake of Hogwarts.

In some ways it was easier now. When people found her in the Entrance Hall at night, watching the oak doors, they didn't find it at all unusual.

They assumed she was waiting for Godric.

* * *

_A/N: ..._

_Well, I'm horrible. But we all knew it couldn't end happily. Such is Founders Era, I'm afraid. Sigh. So, anyway... thanks for reading, it's been great to write and, for one last time, please review! _


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